


There is Safety In

by MamzelleCombeferre



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Barricade Day, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:09:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MamzelleCombeferre/pseuds/MamzelleCombeferre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though the three Thenardier children come from the same parents, all three manage to find solace in different things. (Barricade Day fic)</p>
            </blockquote>





	There is Safety In

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a contribution for barricade day and for a barricade day challenge on Abaisse.net.

1.  
On nights when it rained, the streets tended to flood, water collecting in the crevices between cobblestones first, and then slowly pooling out across the stone itself till you were eventually stepping in inches of water to get anywhere. The hem of her skirt was still long enough that the edges dragged in the water (though it hadn’t properly fit for years), making it heavier and harder for her to continue walking. She hadn’t eaten in three days…four days…she’d lost count, time only measured by the growing pain in her stomach.

A street lamp flickered above her head when she stopped to rest. The glass that normally shielded the flame from the wind was chinked, not entirely broken, but enough so that the small flame flickered in the wind. She liked how it quivered, made her feel less alone in her own quivering, shivering state. A small moth, brown and struggling, flew up to the lamp, burrowing its way through a hole in the glass so that it could sit near the flame, close enough to dry its wings and far enough away that it wouldn’t get burned. Bitter envy swelled within her and she turned away suddenly to keep walking. Blessed oblivion of thought consumed as the rain beat down a tattoo on the back of her head, her neck, her chemise, but upon arriving at the bridge where she sometimes slept the night, her thoughts could no longer be kept away from another small flame.

Marius Pontmercy, the strange young man next door exuded his own peculiar brand of warmth. When he smiled (the few times she had seen it), she wanted to see it again the very moment it left. She was his moth and he was her flame, but how could she compete with the butterfly that had gained his own adoration? She couldn’t. Azelma had told her that several times. Despite knowing this, she was drawn closer even still. Thoughts going back to the little street lamp, she began to cry. The moth had stayed far enough that it wouldn’t get burned in the process of staying warm. Éponine knew that Marius would not burn, and it was with this knowledge that she cried herself to sleep, because there was no reason she should have to keep such a distance between them. There was safety to be found in his arms and it was a feeling she would never know.

 

2.  
“Keep watch.” Her father whispered harshly, flinging her towards a darkened corner of the garden roughly, only getting away with it because Maman was not there to stop him.

“Yes Papa.” She whispered as he turned to enter the house. It was large, two stories, and would take more time to raid. Once he was gone a little poof of sigh escaped, intertwined with a little moan of pain. She cradled her hand, still deeply cut as it was from going through the window pane of their room. If she clenched her fingers at all, little tendrils of pain shot into her wrist so she didn’t want to move her arm at all. This, in turn, made papa angry, then he got violent, then Maman started yelling, and Azelma started wondering what it would be like to just disappear. Quiet she thought, and lonely possibly, except she had never had a chance to be lonely, growing up with so many loud people.

Perhaps it felt a bit like now, dark and strange. She had been watching the house for weeks and could say with certainty that the family would not be back till tomorrow at least. The watch was merely for security, nothing more. The garden was lovely, she decided as she looked around to make sure no one would try to enter before they could leave. Flowers climbed up from their bush homes to twine around trees of spectacular height and butterflies flew about even at this early hour of the morning (late hour of the night? She never knew ever since Papa sold his watch). In the midst of all this beauty though, a moth flew, landing on her hand to rest.

“Hello little moth, petit papillon.” She cooed over the winged insect like it was one of the dogs she saw ladies and gentlemen walking in the public parks of Paris. Brown and light, she drew it closer to her chest, marveling when it made no attempt to fly away. Momentarily she was lost in her own world where there was only her and the moth that enjoyed her company instead of tolerating it. A nose from the street caused her to startle and the moth flew away with such speed that she began to cry, quietly, but fully. She’d decided a long time ago that there was safety in solitude, years of living in chaos and pain at the hands of other people had taught her that, but the moth had been her friend for however brief a moment. Loneliness hurt, she decided, but the pain of those you care about leaving hurt worse, and she turned back to her job with renewed vigor.

 

3.  
“Take that! And that!” Gavroche yelled as he threw stones at the street lamps. Bahorel and L’aigle trailed behind, laughing uproariously while Jehan exclaimed about light and Joly made half-hearted attempts to get them to quiet down and stop vandalizing the property of the government of France.

“Our ultimate goal may be the barricades, but I’d rather not end up in jail yet.” He said, smiling a little despite himself. “And some people actually need to wake early for work.”

“So do you Jolllly, and yet you’re still here!” Bahorel shouted louder than was necessary, not because he was drunk (in fact he was one of the more sober ones, bested only by Joly, surprisingly enough), but because he found it appealing to his violent sensibilities.

“Only because I haven’t learned my lesson about going out to drink with you all yet.” Joly pointed out good humoredly.

Gavroche continued ahead, the conversation lost on him as he began to sing.  
“Que veut cette horde d’esclaves,  
De traitres, de rois conjures ?  
Pour qui ces ignobles entraves,  
Ces fers des longtemps prepares ? (bis)  
Francais, pour nous, ah! quel outrage !  
Quels transports il doit exciter !  
C’est nous qu’on ose mediter  
De rendre ? l’antique esclavage !”  
A particularly well flung stone shattered a lamp and the flame burned all the brighter for the sudden influx of oxygen. “Liberty, equality, fraternity!” He shouted at the end of the verse. He enjoyed these nights, hot summer ones full of fun and frivolity. Fueled on by the laughs of the amis, he bounded forward to the next lamp a few yards away. A little moth buzzed around the inside, looking for a way out and finding none, though it must have got in somehow. Pulling yet another stone out of his pocket, he chucked it at the glass, jumping with a jubilant shout when it shattered and the moth fled into the night. “I free you citizen papillon! May your wings never have to land!”

“That’s right Gavroche!” Bahorel’s voice boomed out, startling the boy with its closeness. “One more citizen freed. One step closer to freedom for all.”

Gavroche nodded and beamed, pleased by the praise of the man he viewed as a role model. “Vive la France!” He shouted.

“Vive la France indeed.” Bahorel said. It was then the others caught up. Joly confiscated Gavroche’s pocket of stones, and they continued forward in good spirits. Yes, nights like these were Gavroche’s favorite. He never regretted being kicked out of his home, but nights like these reminded him why. There was a safety in freedom, and it was a safety he would defend to his last moments.


End file.
